by Ruth Skrine
My legs clamp together as they always do when I feel threatened. ‘I think you should just rape me,’ I say. ‘Go on, do it.’
‘Oh for God’s sake Meena, I’m not like that! Why can’t you just ease up?’ He rolls onto his back.
‘It’s the pain. I’m so afraid of the pain.’
‘If you would just relax there would not be any pain. I know what I’m doing, you don’t need to be so worried.’
‘I can’t help it.’
‘Well, I’ve never forced myself on a woman in my life, and I’m not going to start now.’
I rub my body against his. ‘I do want you, really I do.’
‘If you wanted me you would try harder.’
‘Oh Quentin, I love you so much. I’m trying as hard as I can.’ A sob shakes my chest and I expect him to cuddle and comfort me as he has done so often before. He has never run away from my misery as my husband did, but seems to take pleasure in making me feel better.
This time he makes no move to turn towards me. When I realise he is just lying on his back staring into the darkness I smooth his arm and kiss his cheek. Tentatively I move my hand onto his chest and let it slide down. That part of him I have learnt to touch and enjoy is soft and shrivelled, unbelievably small. I snatch my hand back. He grunts and turns away from me so he is facing the wall... I can do nothing to bridge the gap that has opened between us. In a few moments his breathing becomes deeper and he starts to snore.
I cannot believe he has given up so easily. He has never deserted me like this before. It is my fault, I have failed him again. After all the emotion of the day, Henry’s story and the broken hairbrush, I had been so determined to succeed. Another disappointment is almost more than I can bear.
Perhaps I am angry because he showed so little interest in Henry’s romance. If I could have pretended I was a country maiden, the daughter of a blacksmith, free and easy, then I might have relaxed. Or maybe, after all, it is because we aren’t married. His mind is full of Janice, he should have shown more interested in me. I am jealous, that must be the trouble.
I try to lie still so as not to disturb him but the impulse to fidget becomes unbearable. I will never get to sleep in his bed. Creeping out I find a bit of paper and write him a short note to say I have gone back to my own room. Even my haunted house will be easier to bear than the sense of failure that stabs me with every sonorous breath he takes.
I am dreaming when I feel him slip in beside me.
‘I’m sorry I was grumpy,’ he whispers. ‘Give me a cuddle.’
It must be two or three in the morning – that dead hour, the loneliest of all in the darkness, the time when ghosts walk. Normally, I dread being awake during that part of the night. With him beside me I don’t need to resort to the comfort of hot chocolate. I have a living breathing man who loves me. We touch each other in the way we both enjoy. Afterwards I tell him a little of Henry’s story. He tries to listen, but drops asleep before the lovers have left the river. I no longer mind. The pleasure of holding him in my arms is so great that I do not move for ages and my hand under his body develops pins and needles. I manage to extract it without waking him and fit myself along his back. We stay curled together for the rest of the night, so tired we hardly notice the narrowness of my single bed.
In the morning it is as if our spat never happened. We kiss and talk of what we will do that evening. I walk down the back path to school with a light heart. But by the evening doubts begin to nag me. Things have changed. Somewhere, deep inside, I had believed that sex would happen when I was ready for it. That bubble of optimism has sustained me for so many years. Now, hope has deserted me. I had been ready, perhaps as ready as I will ever be. It had not worked.
I push open the French windows and step onto the balcony. An icy wind is sweeping up the valley and the bare branches of the trees shake as if defying the angry clouds. But they are also bending, able to withstand the onslaught, not just of this gale but of all the challenges the world throws at them: drought and heat, sleet and snow. Their very nature allows them to survive without breaking. Henry’s tree, my tree, has managed to exist for goodness knows how many generations. Gripping the balustrade the cold eats into my hands and up through my flesh to meet the emptiness inside. I must follow their example and learn to bend – and to survive.
Throwing my head back, I vow I will not be cowed, or become bitter like my ancestor. If I have to live without sex or love or hope, then so be it. If I can’t have my own children, I will be the very best aunt to my new niece – or nephew. And I will not rest until I have unravelled the secrets of my family. Then at least they will not be able to contaminate the next generation.
Chapter 13
A motherly looking woman opens the door. I have just begun to explain that I am Jane’s old teacher when a small figure pushes past and throws her arms round me. ‘Oh Miss, you came.’
It has taken me so long to persuade anyone to give me the address that I have been tempted to forget her. My life is busy enough without having to worry about a child who is no longer my responsibility.
She drags me inside, through the small hall into the kitchen at the back. I hardly recognise the girl who is talking non-stop, about the rabbits, the baby in the back garden and the bicycle that she can now ride without stabilisers. Her jeans are clean and she smells of soap. Her carer introduces herself as Mrs Wilson, and welcomes me with almost as much warmth as Jane. She waves me to a chair. ‘Jane has talked about you so much, I’m glad you called.’
‘I wanted to come before,’ I say to Jane, giving her hand a squeeze, ‘but I’ve only just discovered where you’re living.’
Mrs Wilson takes the kettle to the tap. ‘My husband doesn’t get in till later. I usually make something for Jane about now, as she’s so hungry after school. Will you join her?’
‘A cup of tea would be lovely.’
A wail comes from the garden. Jane drops my hand and heads for the back door saying, ‘The baby’s awake. Can I go and fetch him?’
Mrs Wilson smiles. ‘Be careful with him now, you’re all excited.’
Before I have time to finish saying how well Jane looks, she reappears, staggering under a large bundle. ‘D’you want to hold him, Miss?’
Mrs Wilson intervenes, holding out her arms. ‘This is my grandson. Jane’s so good with him. I’ll go up and change him, I expect he’s a bit damp.’
Jane hops about from one foot to the other, a recently acquired skill she tells me. ‘I sprinkle the powder on his bottom and I’m learning how to fasten his nappies. They do up with tape now, not safety pins like Ma used when her daughter was a baby.’ She pauses with a worried frown on her face. ‘Everyone calls her Ma, even the postman, so it’s all right for me to as well, isn’t it?’
‘Of course it is.’ I give her a hug. Wriggling out of my arms she starts off again. ‘They’ve got fish at my new school in a big tank. Me and Mary have to feed them every day. The food’s in a big tin with a lid that’s too tight for me to open but Mary can do it and we sprinkle a TINY pinch on the water every day and they come to the top with their big mouths like this.’
Her pursed and gaping lips look so comic but I try not to laugh. She is off into the garden again to reappear with a rabbit in her arms. ‘This is Flopsy, I can’t carry Mopsy as well.’
I stroke the animal and make appreciative noises.
‘We got the names from a book. I can read now, I’ll show you.’
‘It might be better to put Flopsy back first.’ I don‘t want to be chasing a rabbit all over the room.
When she comes in again she has a beetle on her hand. ‘I found this under the stone by the rabbit hutch. I’ve brought it for you ’cause you like bugs.’
Fancy her noticing, in the midst of all her troubles. I let it crawl onto my finger. ‘I think it’s a Carabid beetle, even though it’s a bit early in the year for one of those.’ I imagine the page of pictures showing English beetles in my book. I want to identify it properly, especially
for Jane, and it might be something else. I must have been frowning for Jane begins to shift from foot to foot, still over sensitive to the reactions of adults. ‘Do you remember I told you the wings it uses to fly are hidden under these protective, black ones?’ It is showing no signs of flying and she is still anxious. ‘I’ll put it back while you get your book.’
Sitting on my lap she shows me how she has improved. When Mrs Wilson comes down I hold the baby while she heats baked beans and makes toast. Jane eats with relish, looking up to smile at me between mouthfuls.
When the time comes for me to leave I suggest she might like to come to tea with me one day. She jumps up and down with excitement and asks if the baby can come too. To my relief Mrs Wilson intervenes. ‘I think you might have more fun just the two of you.’
I wonder if she needs the baby to give her courage to visit a new place. ‘You could play with my doll’s house. If we had the baby with us we couldn’t do that, he might swallow the little things.’
‘You’ve got a doll’s house? Are there people to go in it?’
I explain about the family, and how the little boy had been lost but was now found. She hops about again and asks if she can come tomorrow. I have to explain about my diary and fitting her in, but promise to phone as soon as I can. Next weekend is no good because Quentin has offered to help me start decorating the house. And he has bought tickets for the theatre that evening. I want to have Jane when I am sure he will be out of the way.
I am eager to read some more of Henry’s diary but the week is particularly busy and every evening I am too exhausted. I encourage Quentin to spend Saturday morning at the gym so that I can have a lie in and tackle the diary in bed, hoping that the view of my tree will give me courage.
Propped up on even more pillows that I fetch from Briony’s old room, I start on the next bundle of sheets:
January 1805
Aunt Elizabeth is dead. It was sudden, just two weeks after I went back to Maidenhead. I had to come back for the funeral. Now my grandmother and I are staying in the village for a short holiday.
I have not seen Emily and I can hardly write this for weeping. My tears should be for my aunt. It is my fault she is dead. Yet in my heart I know they are for the river angel who came so suddenly into my life, and has now departed.
On that last night I could not escape. Emily was waiting for me in the dell, to say goodbye and wish me God speed. I used every ruse I could think of to get away, but my aunt found one thing after another for me to do. When I said I had to walk the dogs, she got Maria to call William, and told him to exercise them. When I said I needed exercise myself, she called me an ungrateful wretch. Could I not sit with her for one evening after all she had done for me? I hated her then, with a fury I had never felt before. I wanted to put my hands around her neck and strangle her.
All evening I thought of Emily waiting in the dell. The rain started and was soon lashing against the windows. She would get soaked, and I not there to protect her. I dreaded to think what would happen if her father found out where she had been. He takes his family to chapel, which was why I had never seen her in church. Alan the ferryman tells me he is an elder, who preaches fierce sermons, especially when his dark moods are on him. He shouts and gesticulates about the pains of hell, where everlasting fire and chains wait for the sinners of the world. I am afraid he must be a tyrant of a father. On our last night together I had noticed bruises on her arm.
Emily may be only a village girl, but she has captured my spirit and eased my tormented soul. It will be my fault if her father damages her. I should not have been born, I killed my mother by my birth, and now my aunt by my wishes for her to be dead. It was my lustful thoughts that provoked my hatred. I know now that the desires of the flesh are indeed the sins that I have been warned against.
Everyone came to the funeral. My father interrupted his walks in Wales, my stepmother brought my half brothers and sisters, and my grandparents came from London. Aunts and cousins I did not know descended on the village church. The preacher said what a noble person my Aunt Elizabeth had been, always giving herself to others. I felt the congregation looking at me. She had sacrificed herself for me and I could only repay her with bitterness.
The villagers crowded into the back of the church, even those who normally went to the chapel down the hill. Afterwards there was tea in the rectory. As we were walking across the road I thought I caught a glimpse of Emily’s pale face and golden hair. I paused, but my father turned to speak to me and I had to walk on. When I looked again she was gone. I had no opportunity to visit the dell or to retrieve these pages.
Now I come each day and walk through the winter winds, hoping to catch a sight of her flitting through the trees. There is nothing, only the crack of dead, frosted twigs under my feet, and the bare branches swaying above my head, mocking my loneliness. My hands are so cold I can hardly write. My fingers stick to the box; I had to blow on the hinge to open it. I have hollowed out a cavern beneath the tree roots, where I think it will be dry and safe while I am away.
My thoughts reach out across the countryside to wherever Emily may be. I hope she can feel my longing for her. I am furious she does not come, but then I remember that I forsook her on that last night. She is right to be angry with me, to punish me in this way. Perhaps she is in some trouble and I cannot help. If I go to the forge to see her I will only make things worse. I must try to forget her.
My grandmother plans to go to Bournemouth in the spring, and to take me with her. I shall meet all the best families and their daughters. I expect some of them will be pretty but none will be a match for my own Emily.
I go up to Oxford later this year; it may be some time before I can come here again. I wish I could find a better place for this diary, but I dare not put it in my luggage for Grandmother may find it. She wouldn’t chastise me with the wrath of God, as my aunt had done for lesser demeanours, but she would not believe I could be so ignoble as to make friends with a local girl. I should have controlled my wicked thoughts. I did not mean to harm my aunt. Oh Emily, you are not coming and I am desolate. My misery is my punishment.
I let this second little bundle fall on the bed beside me. Two more wait in the box but I need to think about what I have read so far.
Henry has lost his love but he sounds more irritated than heartbroken. He should have fought for her, not rushed off to Bournemouth and then Oxford. He doesn’t even have the guts to confront her father. If she had been a girl of his own class I am sure he would have made more effort.
The deepest anguish that springs from these pages is self-hatred. I sympathise with Henry’s wish to strangle his aunt, I am sure I would have felt the same. But he also blames himself for his mother’s death. That is even more paranoid than my own fears of having damaged my father.
I look at my hands. Was Henry pushing his murderous thoughts into me as I stood in front of his picture and felt so peculiar? I go to the bathroom and work up a great lather between my hands, spreading it on the back and front, down between the fingers and round the nails. I will not carry his guilt as well as my own. Anyway, he didn’t actually commit a murder; he only wanted to.
Jake Farley, a generation or more later, was the murderer. For some reason they are getting muddled in my mind. They were only connected because they lived on the same estate. But Henry had employed Jake’s family out of some sense of duty. The two men were not only quite different socially but had totally different temperaments. Jake lost control and lashed out with a knife. Henry held himself in, turning his anger on himself.
The phone interrupts my musings. Perhaps Quentin has changed his mind and is ready to go out and buy the paint.
‘Quentin?’
‘Meena, Meena…you must come.’ Briony sounds as if she is choking.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’
‘I’m in the Queen Vic hospital. I’m bleeding.’
I find it difficult to grasp what she is saying. ‘Bleeding?’
‘I think
the baby’s going to die.’
‘Surely not.’ Such a thing could not happen to my sister. She is the lucky one; things go right for her.
She is sobbing so hard that I can’t hear what she is saying until she squeals, ‘Meena… I need you.’
‘I’ll come at once. Is Paul with you?’
‘He’s looking after the children. I‘m alone… in a side ward.’ The words escape in small gasps.
‘Hang on. I’ll get the next train.’
‘I don’t know what to do. I can’t go on like this, I can’t. I want Mummy.’
Briony is not used to being alone in a crisis. ‘Just stay where you are. I’ll be with you in a couple of hours. Sooner.’ All thoughts of Henry vanish from my mind.
Clutching my dressing gown I run down the stairs and through to Quentin. The stone floor of the connecting passage is cold on my bare feet, but I hardly notice. He is just going out. I explain what has happened and ask him to call me a taxi.
‘What about our theatre date?’ he asks.
‘We’ll have to postpone it. Briony is really upset.’
‘Surely her husband is there to care for her? ’
‘He has to look after the other children. She’s quite far on; late miscarriages can be serious.’ Quentin doesn’t understand my fear. ‘Briony has never had to cope with anything bad. I don’t know that she can. She sounded desperate on the phone.’
‘But I’ve bought the tickets. It’s such a waste…’
‘Take Susan in my place.’ I hurry back to get dressed and throw some things into a case.
No train has ever travelled so slowly. It stops in a tunnel soon after we start. The other people in the carriage begin a desultory conversation but when the lights go out they fall silent. In the dark I can imagine Briony with her face screwed up, just as it was when she had a temper tantrum in the old days. Her little fists would beat on her head as she stamped her foot. When she is hurt or angry she makes no attempt to control herself. Her feelings gush out all over other people. I used to run into the garden until my mother or grandmother had pacified her. Once, I had stayed out till it was quite dark, sitting on the swing and clinging to the ropes, first with one hand and then the other. When I let go deep creases and white ridges were scored on my palms. Indoors, nobody had even noticed I was missing.
